


In Arms

by saltandbyrne



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Military Background, Porn Watching, Pre-Series, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 05:39:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12928662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandbyrne/pseuds/saltandbyrne
Summary: Everybody loves mail call.





	In Arms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Exaggerated_Specificity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exaggerated_Specificity/gifts).



Everybody loves mail call.

There’s a plethora of sweets from one of those “trade in your Halloween candy” programs that Junior’s dentist runs.  Gunner gets new socks and a goddamn Bible. 

Billy doesn’t get a lot of mail.

Maria sends him a new picture of Junior in his little league uniform, a few battered Tom Clancy novels that he’ll share with the guys, and a bottle of Lubriderm.  Frank loves his wife.

The afternoon is the heaviest time of the day here.  The air is thick enough to shake when Billy bumps Frank’s shoulder and darts his eyes outside. 

The laundry room in Frank’s house is Maria’s lair.  He’ll never understand why someone needs decorative shelving above a dryer but she’d been at her sweetest for days after he’d installed it.  All that gingham shit and the everclean scent of detergent made him feel like he was sneaking into some girl’s dorm for a panty raid every time he slipped in behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.  They’d even fucked in it once, while the kids were sleeping and the dryer churned warm against his shins. 

There are snakes in the laundry room here.

Billy’s always good at knowing how to catch some alone time.  “Orphan skills,” he’ll always joke, always with a smile on his face, a wink, a diversion the other guys eat out of his hand. 

There’s rules about stuff like this.  It’s amazing the things you can learn without anyone ever teaching you.  Billy’s handclap against his shoulder is perfectly friendly, nothing that would warrant a second glance outside.  It’s the nanosecond after, the lingering squeeze of his fingers, the triple press of his thumb into Frank’s collarbone. 

“Got something new.”

He’s not even sure how Billy gets this shit.  It’s not like they can’t have phones, but the things the US government will and won’t let its fine defenders download is a morse code unto itself. 

Frank sees cheerleaders through the half-cracked screen of Billy’s phone and grins.

“My man.”

They’re close enough that he can smell the Milk Duds Billy’s already filched from his care package.  They have to stand hip-to-hip to see the tiny screen in Billy’s hand.

“God, I miss tits.”

Billy’s already undoing his pants.  The steady image of the girl on screen jostling a truly impressive dick between her tits is perfectly steady, belying Billy’s practice at whipping his dick out with one hand.  The sound is off-time and her mouth opens into a gaping O thirty seconds before breathy, tinny giggling echoes out of the phone’s shitty speaker. 

It’s fake and corny and still a thousand times better than the pussy Frank hasn’t had in months.  Another girl appears and it’s double blowjob time, with another lapsed hyena-giggle as the first girl’s friend (Step-mom? Sister? He’s not really sure about the plot) joins her. 

“I miss _that_ shit.”

Frank nods at the expert deepthroat Step-mom is working.  He uses both hands to get his fly open, slides one down, grinds his palm and grits his teeth when the _glug-glug_ choke noises catch up with the screen.  That shit’s nasty and he loves it, gets it on his birthday, anniversary, and first night home if Maria’s feeling doting.

She always is.

Frank spits in his hand and curses himself for leaving her present under his bunk.  It’s like he’s constantly sweating to death and dry as a husk at the same time out here. 

“Wifey gonna take care of you when get back?”

“Fuck off.”

They’re both smiling, though.  The first time you jerk off in front of your buddy is weird.  The hundredth time is just maintenance.

Even with the volume all the way up the sound of stroking is still louder than the half-ass dialogue bleating from Billy’s hand.  Step-mom’s got the other girl’s mouth held open, trashy nails pulling at the corners of her mouth as the guy (Delivery guy? Cop? Plumber?) shoots a load all over her face.

“Goddamn I love that shit.”

Billy’s love for facials is as legendary as his pretty face.  Frank has heard so many graphic narrations of Billy’s spooge-blowing exploits he’d know what the guy’s dick looked like even if he didn’t see it on the regular. 

“Bet your girlfriends don’t.”

Frank squints at the screen, zeroing in on the pink-wet folds of Step-mom’s shaved pussy.  The only time he jerks off at home is when his face is buried between his wife’s legs. 

“Not everyone’s an uptight Catholic like you, Frankie.”

Billy’s voice is shaky, breath in his throat, the cords in his neck standing out.  Frank knows his tells better than the last girl who got Billy’s jizz in her fake eyelashes.

“Mouth’d feel fucking nice right now.”

Frank swallows thick after he says it, half regretting it and half distracted by the ooze of precome out of his dick. 

“Trade you.”

Billy doesn’t look at him when he says it.  You never look. 

Frank strokes himself once, squeezing his cock at the base before he grunts a tight, “Yeah.”

The first time you blow your friend it’s weird.  The hundredth time it’s a favor.

Part of the intricate checks and balances is their pecking order.  First to break and bring it up is the first one on his knees.  Frank tucks himself back in and sinks down.

“You come on my fucking face I will rip your nuts off.”

Billy snorts and if Frank looked up at his face he’d see a smirk.

“You’re ugly enough as it is, Frankie.”

It’s part of this life, knowing shit that regular people can’t. Frank sleeps at night with blood on his hands and the close, salty knowledge of Billy’s dick in his mouth. 

He cheats and uses his hand, not even close to Step-mom level skills at this point in his perfunctory porn career.  It only seems fair. 

Frank gets him as deep as he can before he feels his gag reflex kick in.  At its heart there’s not much art to this, just his lips covering his teeth and some spit to ease the way.  He keeps his eyes closed.

“Shit.”

Billy jerks back with a hiss, not quite quick enough to keep a stripe of come from hitting Frank’s tongue.  The rest splats onto the floor.

“Asshole.”

Frank spits next to Billy’s feet.  As far as things Frank has tasted he’d take it over dirt any day but there’s a rhythm to these things, a banter they have to maintain. 

Buddies don’t swallow.

“C’mere, I’ll make it up to you.”

Frank tilts his head up to the ceiling when Billy swallows him down.  Never look, that’s the big rule, the one you don’t even joke around with.  Frank had broken it once and shit had been weird for days. 

Billy doesn’t use his hand.  It’s hot as shit in here but the way Billy glides down on him makes his skin prickle, makes him clench his teeth and curl his hand into a fist.  There’s no way it feels this good when Frank does it. 

Frank knows things he’s not supposed to but Billy always seems to know more.

“Bill, I’m gonna, hey,” Frank’s voice rises sharp as he trips down, into the wet heat of Billy’s mouth, where Billy’s far too good at this and he’s not fucking pulling off and Frank’s about to come and all he wants to do is open his eyes.

Truth is, Frank’s scared to look.

He shudders through it until he feels the shock of air against his bare, spit-kissed skin.  He squints at the sun trickling through the windows, the fucking sun that bleaches and blinds everything out here.  Billy’s got a mouthful of his jizz and he makes sure Frank watches as he spits it onto the ground like an offering.

Frank kicks a spray of dirt over the greasy patches before they both stagger out. 

Frank knows too many things but the way Billy wipes his hand across his bottom lip and smiles like he just got something out of Frank makes him yearn for the simplicity of killing.

“Tell me you got some Kit Kats in that box.”

Billy smacks his shoulder, back to camaraderie, back to the blinding sun and open air of their barracks.  Time will bury their secrets in a foot of sand and scar tissue.

“Not sharing ‘em with you, dickhead.”

 

It’s alright.  Billy’s family.

 

 

 


End file.
